


Radiant Neon

by smallandwinged



Category: Star Wars Legends: Knights of the Old Republic (Video Games)
Genre: F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Post-Canon, and credit to sovonight on tumblr for inspo from their atton/exile comics, and i gotta get stuff out, and its almost 4 am, and sometimes i get big feelings about kotor2, enjoy a little bit of emotional rollercoaster post malachor v, look ive nver posted before, post time babey, so im saying fuck it, we dont know each other but their stuff is fantastic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-18
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-10 17:02:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28150587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallandwinged/pseuds/smallandwinged
Summary: Atton takes some time waking up after Sion nearly kills him. He then takes some more time feeling things. It's a lot for him.post TSLRCM Malachor V
Relationships: Female Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand, The Jedi Exile & Atton "Jaq" Rand, The Jedi Exile/Atton "Jaq" Rand
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	Radiant Neon

He is aware of the pain long before he gains consciousness again. His sleep is deep; he doesn’t dream it, but beneath the numbness he feels it. A dull ache.

When he wakes the first time it grows from ache to sting, prickling against something wet and warm. The solution of his kolto tank, though he won’t know that for a while. He has yet to open his eyes.

Far away he hears a voice, sonorous and smooth. It reminds him of small smirks and old books, relics and blonde hair. He frowns. The stinging lances across his mouth, and his body convulses in the tank, making the sting lance elsewhere. His side, his back, his arm—they burn. His eyes flutter open at the pain, and they catch a blurry glimpse of light and color. Something moves amongst it all before his vision fades to black, his eyes close, and he recedes into soft numbness once more.

When he wakes the second time the ache grows, but only just. Beneath it is a heat, a burning, but above it is cool antiseptic and soft sheets. Around it are arms, strong and gentle, cradling. He is being carried.

Their voices are far but closer and drawing closer still. Smooth murmurs like books and blonde hair say something, and soft whispers reply, whispers that make his heart race and ache and burn far brighter and more painfully than the heat crawling under his skin. They sound like radiant neon and homespun cloth, a saber’s edge and raindrops. 

The gentle arms release him onto a pallet. He moans. Something brushes his forehead, just above his right eye, and his eyelid flutters. It is heavy, so heavy, but for the barest of moments it stays open. He can’t focus, but through the blur he catches glimpses. Through the blur he sees white light, grey walls, and something radiant, radiant like the neon on Nar Shaddaa, radiant like galaxy’s stars. Through the blur he thinks he hears his name.

But still his eyes are heavy, so heavy, and darkness grows, and his eyes close, and he loses himself to numbness once again.

When he wakes the third time it is with ease. The ache is there but it is subtle. Shifting. His eyes open slowly, but smoothly. He is alone.

Not entirely alone. He can hear voices coming from the corridor outside. Blonde hair and relics. Mical. Bright neon and raindrops. Her.

But for now the room is empty, and he takes comfort in that. It provides privacy, and opportunity. He thinks he knows what he will find, what he will see, but he needs to check. He needs to be sure. 

He uses the arm he has left to prop himself up in bed. The sheets fall away, revealing the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso and what remains of his left shoulder. This is nothing new, though. It is something else.

He looks around, eyes searching the medbay, stopping only when he sees the darkened monitor next to his bed. Reflected in it is his face. His brown hair is tousled, his right eye is tired. His left is covered in clean, white bandages.

He reaches underneath, careful not to touch the skin below, and pulls. They come off easily, and as he stares, he wishes they hadn’t.

The room is empty, and he takes comfort in that. She won’t see him like this. Flailing. Losing. Weak. He grits his teeth, chokes back… something. A sob? A cry? A scream? He’ll never know.

There is a click, a quiet whir, and the door to the medbay opens. He turns away to face the wall and the new, raw tissue on his left side twinges. It makes him wince, his eyes screwed shut.

“Atton?”

No. No no no. Not her. Not now. Not like this.

Her footsteps are light. Always have been. But still he hears them, feels them, as they cross the room to him.

And then she is holding him, gentle arms around him in a way she’s never done for him before, tighter than the bandages but softer than his own skin. He freezes, eyes still shut tight. He fears that one small movement and this will end.

A moment passes, then two. She begins to pull away. No, don’t. Please. But silent pleas have never worked, not even on her. He hadn’t needed pazaak to keep her from reading his thoughts in a long while. She said she respected him too much.

If he was lucky, maybe she wouldn’t think that anymore.

But he’s never been that lucky and so still she pulls away, clears her throat. “I apologize,” she says, “That was impulsive. I’ve… been very worried about you.”

Her voice is like raindrops on a lake. He still can’t look at her.

His mouth moves on its own, opening as a single, dry laugh slips out. “Well hey,” he says, “if dying is all it takes to get a hug like that, maybe I should do it more often.” He opens his eyes, but still faces the wall. He can feel the small smile on his lips. It’s comforting. Familiar.

“Why did you take your bandages off?”

He shrugs. “Dunno. Curiousity, maybe? It doesn’t matter. I mean, it’s not like this can get any worse.”

A beat, then he feels the lightest brush of fingers on his knee as she stands. He flinches. His smile falters.

“It does matter. We’re still a ways out from Telos, and we can’t put you back in the kolto tank—we’ve run out of refills. I won’t let you die of something as preventable as infection before we get there.”

She’s crossed the room by now, and is rummaging in the supply cabinet. He can hear her sifting through medpacs and serum, looking for bandages. He knows she’ll find some, but he doesn’t want her to.

A drawer shuts. Her light footsteps grow close. He imagines her kneeling in front of him, turning his face to hers, reeling at the sight. He feels sick. He has to do something.

And so he turns to face her, beaming. One eye, dark brown and tired, sees her falter in her step, sees her frown, sees her radiance and it makes him ache somewhere other than his wounds, someplace he can’t name. The other, white and wide, surrounded by angry, red scars and torn flesh, sees nothing.

“Look,” he says, reaching out his hand, “I’ll do it myself, if it matters to you so much. Just give me the bandages.”

She doesn’t move. She stares. She frowns. It’s hard to look at her for so long. He drops his gaze, turns again to the wall, but leaves the smile.

“Atton—”

“I promise, it’s fine. Look,” he says, cutting her off. “in the ten minutes I’ve been back from the dead, I’ve gotten pretty acquainted with my new face. I’ll spare you any more horror. Just let me do it myself.”

She still hasn’t moved. “Atton,” she says, “you can’t. You only have one hand.”

“I’ll…” His voice trails off. He blinks. “I’ll figure something out. Just…”

She still stands there. Unmoving. Staring. Bright.

“Please.”

She waits, sighs, walks forward. He tenses, but she only puts the roll of bandages gently next to him on his bed. “I won’t push you, Atton,” she says. “Just know that… that I know you, and you know me. Nothing will change that. Ever.”

She turns away, light footsteps receding, and he feels sick again. Every step she takes seems to unravel him, undo him. He is splitting. He has to do something.

“Wait.”

The footsteps pause.

“Wait. I… I’m sorry. Don’t…” He pauses, clears his throat. “You’re right. I can’t do this. Not with one hand, anyway. Or, at least, not well. And honestly,” he lets another chuckle slip through, “I’d rather not deal with dear Nurse Mical just yet.”

She waits again, but then still she walks forward, towards him. She pauses when she reaches the bed, then slowly sits down on it next to him. He still can’t quite look at her.

“I don’t want to make you uncomfortable,” she says. “Don’t force yourself to do this for me.”

“No,” he says, “No, it’s alright. I… I think I need this. I think…” He pauses. “ I think I need you here right now.” 

He spares a glance at her. She is smiling. It is a small smile, soft, but it glows just as brightly as she, and he can barely stand to look. She reaches her hand out towards him, slowly, gently brushes her fingers across his brow, shifting hair out of his eyes. He flinches slightly, then leans into the touch. The smile falls from his lips as he does, but the smile was sharp, and this new expression is different. It is soft. She looks at him. He is like radiant neon and homespun cloth, a saber’s edge and raindrops. He is beautiful.

**Author's Note:**

> please dont come at me for incorrect lore, language, or whatever. i wrote this from midnight to 4 am and checked absolutely nothing. i dont know how kolto tanks work, i dont know if the ebon hawk has one, and i dont care rn. i do care that you read this and the rest of my work tho! i appreciate that and i appreciate you! thank you!


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